


Warmth

by carlizzlerose



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlizzlerose/pseuds/carlizzlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dirk didn’t bring much with him when he showed up, but everything he did share with you was warm. Warmth by your side at night, having someone’s skin to press your cold fingertips into, someone to heat the fragments of your gentle heart and heal what’s grown stoic. Warmth in his smile, the way it stirs something heavy in you and makes it feel light again. Warmth in the color of his eyes, warmth like melting autumn. Your cheeks probably love him most of all, how they get rosy near him, blazing with your signature color in his presence, a testament to your utter hopelessness.</p>
<p>You love it, and not to brag or anything, but you figure he probably does too. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Dirk likes to cook and Roxy likes to distract him. They both like to be utter nerds.

It’s not so much that you tease him for the sole purpose of getting that one expression on his face, the little flustered look where he can’t decide how exactly to react to you, but that’s basically why you do it. 

Your sweater is too long for your shorts, and you are too short for the counter, so your feet swing as you sit perched on the granite next to the sink, all wool and legs. Surprisingly, you’ve been good so far today. Only a few little comments here and there, which he’s responded to distractedly and obligingly. You may have gotten him to fall in love with you, but you know you’ll always share a space in his heart with your kitchen. The thought makes you smile more than it encourages your sighs, so you grin as you watch him mess with (by which you mean fix; you saw him glance at his reflection in the microwave) his hair and concentrate on recipes and ingredients. 

You lean back with your head against the cabinets as you hum to yourself, letting your eyes wander around the tiled room. You’ve never had much use for a place like this, always having been one for frozen foods and leftovers. You use your microwave and coffee percolator more than any of the other actual appliances; even your fridge is bare most days. Nothing on the inside but the cold, and the instant ice in it’s plastic wrapped pocket.

But these days, you can hardly fit anything in there. 

Dirk didn’t bring much with him when he showed up, but everything he did share with you was warm. Warmth by your side at night, having someone’s skin to press your cold fingertips into, someone to heat the fragments of your gentle heart and heal what’s grown stoic. Warmth in his smile, the way it stirs something heavy in you and makes it feel light again. Warmth in the color of his eyes, warmth like melting autumn. Your cheeks probably love him most of all, how they get rosy near him, blazing with your signature color in his presence, a testament to your utter hopelessness.

You love it, and not to brag or anything, but you figure he probably does too. 

But granite is chilly still and your shorts don’t protect your skin from exposure to it’s cold surface, so you hop off, the balls of your feet absorbing the impact quietly. You tiptoe over to him and reach up to put your hands on his shoulders, slowing moving to wrap your arms around his neck. You might be up on your tiptoes, but it’s the best hug you can manage right now. You can feel the threat of laughter in his throat, but it never does sound.

"Ro." His voice is both amused and tired – you do this every time. It just never gets old for you, but you loosen your grip and drop back to your bare feet, letting your arms wrap around his waist instead, a more reasonable closeness. At least you’re not strangling him and breaking your toes with this one.

And there’s that look; you don’t even have to catch sight of his features to see it. A little crease between the eyebrows, a little smirk on his lips, chin toned downwards towards the dark pot on the stove, flicking once down to the arms around his waist. The smile grows only slightly more pronounced. 

"Just seeing what you’re up to." You try to slip as much innocence as is possible into your voice, but your words are coated with too much mischief to be deemed anywhere near your intended tone. When he glances back at you over his shoulder, his orange eyes are curious rings that meet yours for a moment before returning to his beloved dish. 

You disentangle yourself and peer forward this time, looking at the pot of sauce he’s stirring, adding different spices to the mix every few minutes. You’ve been watching him do this, but maybe you didn’t realize that’s what he was doing at the time. Gauging the flame as “p small” and “probs not that hot” in your head, you go ahead and stick your finger in the pot, quickly gathering a dollop of red sauce on your index finger. 

"Well, what does it look like I’m– Roxy!" The sauce is very, very hot. You let out a much louder "FUCK" than you knew your were capable of, the expletive sounding at about the same time as your name on his lips, and not knowing what to do with your sauce covered forefinger, you act on impulse and stick it into your mouth. He looks at you with wide eyes, because you both are beginning to realize that was a mistake, and now your tongue is burning and you’ve fucked up big time. 

“Ahh–" You swallow the scalding mouthful and run to the sink, leaning your elbows on the counter as you push the knob away from you, letting cold water rush over your hand, and then you go right ahead and stick your mouth into the stream of water, soothing your scorched tongue. By the time the angry pink skin settles down, you turn to find him with the stove turned off, his eyebrows raised to worried heights. 

"Are you okay?" 

You giggle a little to show you’re alright, and tilt your head slightly to one side, “My one criticism," you pause, and put on your best food critic face. He raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his chest, spoon in hand, waiting for your commentary. "Maybe it should be cooler or something. Hard to taste when it's burning a hole through your tongue, you know?” 

"Oh my god." He shakes his head, "Next time, try waiting a little, okay? Maybe until it’s on a plate and can’t hurt you." His attention is back on the pot, but you catch him glancing at you as you trot to a nearer counter, hoisting yourself up next to the stove where you can easily distract him without injuring yourself. 

Sure, everything he brought with him was warm. But you can't blame him for what you let it do to you. That's your own damn fault, and you wouldn't trade it for all the ice and fire in the world.


End file.
